Rising to the Occasion
by Kerkerian-Horizon
Summary: Poor John is ill. Since Sarah's not a nurse and Mrs Hudson's off to Paris, there's no one else but Sherlock to take care of him. Intimidated by the task at first, he's taking it to a whole new level... One-shot.


**Disclaimer**: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.

**Author´s notes**: I am no native English speaker and therefore apologize for any mistakes.

Enjoy!

o o o

**Rising to the Occasion  
**

o o o

The steps up to the flat seemed impossibly steep, and there were far too many of them. John awkwardly leaned against the wall as he climbed one after the other in a painfully slow procedure; it took a lot of effort to lift his feet and keep his balance at the same time. His head was swimming, and _oh God_ upstairs he could hear the violin. He usually liked it, but with the way his head was aching already he dreaded every sound, especially since Sherlock seemed to be composing, which meant it was experimental rather than harmonic.

John didn´t realize he had halted at one point, but something was different. The violin, it had stopped. His eyes were closed, that´s why he flinched when suddenly someone was touching him. A deep voice was talking nearby, and it occured to John that it was reassuringly familiar. He didn´t mind when someone placed a steadying arm around his back and supported him, pulling him away from the wall he had been leaning against. Now his head met something smooth and warm, and the person´s scent was also familiar and even soothing.

John didn´t bother opening his eyes as he was being helped up the rest of the stairs and led into the flat; he soon was being lowered onto a soft mattress and was asleep within seconds. He didn´t even register that he was being eased out of his shoes, his jumper and his pants.

Sherlock carefully pulled the covers up around John, tucking him in securely so he wouldn´t be cold. He had never seen the doctor in such a state; he was feverish and obviously so exhausted that he would have fallen asleep on the stairs. He was pale and did look drawn, which Sherlock admittedly hadn´t noticed before.

He felt vaguely ashamed; John was his friend, after all. The only excuse he had was that they had barely seen each other during the past week, since John had been working in the surgery every day and Sherlock had spent most of the time in the lab at Barts.

He looked at John, wondering whether he should call a doctor. His friend very obviously needed proper care, and Sherlock wasn´t sure whether he could provide it. What if he did it wrong, causing John´s condition to become worse?

Having reached a decision, Sherlock took John´s phone out of his jacket and searched through the directory until he had found the number he´d been looking for.

**o**

Half an hour later, someone knocked on the front door. Mrs. Hudson beat Sherlock to opening it, and had a slightly curious air about her as she led Sarah into the flat. Sherlock had described John´s condition in detail on the phone, and their brief history together didn´t exactly require exchanging pleasantries. Thank goodness, Sherlock wouldn´t even have known what to say; 'have you been to the circus lately' probably wouldn´t do, and it really was all he could think of.

He therefore just nodded as a way of greeting: "Thank you for coming," and led the way to his bedroom. Sarah apparently had never been in John´s, otherwise she´d very likely have remarked on this not being it. She just looked around, curiosity getting the better of her, her eyes lingering on the framed poster of the periodic table, before turning her attention to John.

Sherlock hovered in the corner, unsure as to whether he should leave or not, but feeling that it might be necessary in case John woke up; he would have to do some explaining, after all. Sarah and John had never made it past the ´just-friends´ stage, and Sherlock didn´t expect John to be happy about this, even though logically it was most convenient.

John did not wake up while he was being examined; he was severely out of it.

"Lots of rest and fluids," Sarah said when she was done.

Sherlock made an inquisitive gesture: "So what is it?"

"Flu. The real thing, not just a cold. He´ll be very uncomfortable for a while, his joints and his back will be most likely be aching, and his sinuses are swollen shut."

She wrote out a prescription: "Here, get him these. They should help with the fever and the headcold. Make sure he doesn´t take them on an empty stomach."

Sherlock felt a mild, unfamiliar unease surging up in him as he watched Sarah putting away her stethoscope: "Er- shouldn´t he be in hospital?"

She gave him a funny look, followed by a smirk: "Not with the flu. It´s 2012."

"Right."

Sarah patted him on the arm: "He´ll be fine. Just be there for him and make sure he stays in bed. And he should eventually put on some proper pyjamas."

"_Right_."

She took her bag: "I´ll be off then. See you-"

"You´re not staying?"

She paused: "I´m not a nurse, you know?"

"No, but you´re a _doctor_, and therefore much better qualified to care for him than I do."

Sarah was shaking her head: "You really _are_ like that, aren´t you."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes: "What do you mean?"

"Nothing. Look, I´m sorry, I´ve got a date tonight. Apart from neither being a nurse nor John´s... girlfriend."

"Hardly my fault."

"Yeah... I bet." She gave him a wry smile, irritating Sherlock to no end. He had to make one more try though: "What if the fever doesn´t abate?"

"It will." Sarah turned towards the door: "Tell him I said hi."

Sherlock watched her leave, running a hand through his hair. Well, so much for the female maternal instinct.

Maybe Mrs Hudson would take pity on him.

**o**

He went downstairs and stopped at her door: "Mrs Hudson, I´m going out to get some medication for John."

"That was his colleague, wasn´t it? Is he all right, dear?" Mrs Hudson appeared downright flustered.

Sherlock did his best to look concerned bordering on anxious: "We´ll have to wait and see. If it comes to the worst, I´ll take him to Barts."

Mrs Hudson covered her mouth with one hand: "Oh, Sherlock. Don´t you think you can handle it?"

He didn´t like the sound of the _you_.

"Well, I´m in the middle of a case and-"

She interrupted him, something he wasn´t wont of her: "Sherlock Holmes! God knows I´m not your mother, but let me say this, and I´m only going to say it once: John Watson is a good friend to you, and you better think twice if you are considering leaving him to his own devices!"

Sherlock was taken aback: "He won´t be alone," he finally said, sounding defensive, "_you_ will be here, won´t you?"

His landlady crossed her arms: "As a matter of fact, I won´t. I´m going to Paris with Humphrey." She blushed endearingly. Humphrey Parkinson was her latest admirer and despite his pompous name seemed to be a quite decent chap. No criminal record either.

Still- did it have to be _this_ weekend? Mrs Hudson however hadn´t been finished yet and continued before Sherlock could answer: "And if you hadn´t been so _busy_ lately, you´d have known that. John has even offered to carry my luggage downstairs."

"I´m sorry, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock managed to look contrite. Which he actually was a little; he was aware that Mrs Hudson made a point to respect her tenants´ privacy and was rather lenient towards them, especially the one which tended to do unusual, sometimes illegal things. Still, they had grown rather close, keeping an eye on each other, and he had to admit that he had left the eye-keeping to John lately. He _had_ been busy, but it still was no valid excuse to neglect Mrs H.

"Paris?" he asked.

"Hm," Mrs Hudson dreamily clasped her hands in front of her chest, "it´s supposed to be very romantic this time of year."

"I thought it is _always_ romantic."

"Oh, don´t be such a spoilsport." He batted his arm with the back of her hand, if rather playfully.

"Well, then... I will carry your luggage downstairs, if you like." he offered. The old lady´s frown dissolved into a gracious smile: "Thank you, my dear."

**o**

When Sherlock returned to the flat a while later, John hadn´t moved; he looked fever-flushed and very pale at the same time.

Sherlock sat down on the bed and waited. He had already made a list in his head: 1. provide John with whatever he needed to take, eat or drink, 2. keep him company (probably dull as long as John was mostly sleeping) and 3. quoting directly from Sarah: 'make sure he stays in bed'.

That shouldn´t be too difficult.

When John still hadn´t moved ten minutes later, the detective got up again; it was only early afternoon and he still had to finish some tests. As long as John was asleep, he would hardly mind.

Sherlock had just sat down in front of his microscope when Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door: "Sherlock?"

At lightning speed, Sherlock jumped to his feet and lunged over towards the sink.

When the landlady put her head around the corner, he was filling the electric kettle: "Just preparing some tea," he said. "For John, obviously."

She smiled: "I´m off now."

Sherlock put the kettle down and went to kiss her good-bye: "_Au revoir_. Call me if something´s wrong."

Tutting but smiling, she went downstairs.

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief and returned to his microscope, kettle forgotten.

**o**

John woke up in the late afternoon; it was getting dark outside, the room was bathed in blue twilight. He had no idea where he was, since it was definitely not his own bed he had woken up in, but his head actually hurt too much to really care. He was thirsty and his throat hurt, he really needed some water.

He could make out a lamp on the nightstand next to the bed and fumbled around clumsily for a switch. With a loud thud, a book fell off the small table. Only seconds later, the door opened and the ceiling light came on: "John?"

"Sherlock," John croaked, blinking at the sudden brightness. "Where- _why_ am I in your room?"

"I obviously couldn´t have hauled you up the stairs to _your_ room," Sherlock said, "staircase´s too narrow and you were dead on your feet. How are you feeling?"

"Horrible." John shivered and pulled the blanket up around himself.

As though he had read his friend´s mind, Sherlock reached for the glass of water on the nightstand and handed it to him: "You need plenty of fluids."

John huffed but drained the glass. He was beginning to tremble by the time he was finished, feeling very shaky: "I also need something for the headache."

"Not unless you eat something first."

John groaned: "Who died and made you a doctor?"

Sherlock grimaced: "I consulted one. She said you shouldn´t take any pills on an empty stomach."

"She?"

"Never mind. Better lie down now. I´ll bring you some tea and biscuits, and afterwards you can have the pills."

Rather baffled, John huddled into the covers, rubbing the heel of one hand over his temple; he was uncomfortably hot and his skin seemed to burn. Simultaneously, he was drenched in cold sweat, shivering and feeling as though someone had stuffed his head with cotton wool. Moreover, he was lying in Sherlock´s bed- partly undressed at that- and Sherlock was making him tea... he must be really bad off then.

Miserably, he closed his eyes.

**o**

When Sherlock manoeuvred his way into the room with a tea tray ten minutes later, John had nearly dozed off again. Sitting up made him dizzy and he groaned when Sherlock insisted that he eat something, but the prospect of having to go without painkillers if he refused clearly prevailed.

Sherlock sat down on the bed and handed John a mug: "Mrs Hudson´s off to Paris. She sends her love."

John, who was blowing at the tea to cool it down hesitated, suspiciously peering at Sherlock over the rim of his mug: "Small talk, Sherlock, really?" He frowned: "I´m not dying, am I?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes: "I´m just applying standard procedures when dealing with an ill person-"

"_What_?"

"- as adviced by numerous sources in the internet. I have looked it all up and made a list."

"A list." Weakly, John put the mug down. "Have you never been ill yourself?"

Sherlock shrugged: "Must have deleted it. Don´t worry though, I´m learning as we go."

"Right." John processed this while he was sipping his tea. "Well, I´m glad to be of help. As long as you don´t start referring to me as 'Test Object No. 73' or something like that."

Sherlock feigned innocence: "Why would I do that?"

John was feeling way too miserable to argue, so he just shrugged.

"Did you remove my clothes or did I?" he asked.

"I did, I hope you don´t mind."

"No, ´s fine. Thanks."

Sherlock handed him a plate: "Biscuits."

John didn´t really fancy eating anything, but once he bit into the first biscuit, he realized that his stomach was quite empty in fact, even if he didn´t exactly feel hungry.

Sherlock watched him eating with a distant expression, and John suspected he had gone to his mind palace, but when the plate was empty, the detective reached into his pocket and handed John a packet of pills.

"Amoxicillin? Where did you get these?"

"From your doctor."

"My- who?"

"Sarah."

"Right." John said feebly, swallowing one of the pills and drinking some water to flush it down. "Sherlock- Sarah´s not my doctor," he added, putting the glass back on the nightstand,"and I can hardly believe that she simply wrote out a prescription without seeing the patient first."

"Of course she wouldn´t have done that," Sherlock said lightly, "which is why I asked her to come here."

John stared at him.

"House call." Sherlock briefly pulled up the corners of his mouth for a mock smile.

"She came here?" For a moment, John was tempted to fling the packet at him. "While I was asleep?"

"Well yes, since you were completely oblivious to the world."

"You could have woken me."

"Obviously not, otherwise you´d have registered it when Sarah pushed up your shirt- did you just _yelp_?"

John´s expression was murderous: "For heaven´s sake, Sherlock! For all your brilliance you can be so incredibly ignorant sometimes!"

Sherlock crossed his arms: "And what else was I supposed to do?" John, despite the headache and everything, noticed that his friend didn´t snap at him but sounded rather defensive.

"You could have woken me," he repeated stubbornly, unwilling to let Sherlock get away too easily.

"You were mostly unconscious," Sherlock said.

Tiredly, John let himself sink back into the pillows: "Whatever." He closed his eyes, feeling drained. Sherlock really didn´t see why he was angry: to him, it had been logical to call a doctor whom John knew. It didn´t really matter- Sarah and he had never been able to take their relationship further than being friends, sort of, and she was going out with someone else now. No point in bothering.

**o**

He started when he felt a tentative hand on his shoulder: "John."

"Hm," he grunted, unwilling to be engaged in any more conversations right then; he really only wanted to sleep.

"I´ve brought you some Strepsils."

The bastard. Always knew how to get straight to John´s heart.

Without opening his eyes, John held out a hand: "Gimme."

He heard the crackling sound of a tablet being pressed out of the package, then Sherlock placed a Strepsil on his palm: "It´s a blue one," he provided, "'Sore Throat and Blocked Nose'."

John peered up at him through half-lidded eyes: "How did you know?"

Sherlock, sensing that he was being forgiven, shrugged, the picture of modesty: "I may have remembered how it felt to get the flu."

"Didn´t read it up?"

"No. Not this one. I just had a hunch you might need them."

"Huh." John closed his eyes again, glad about the momentary relief which the lozenge provided.

He sighed, snuggling deeper into the pillow.

Sherlock watched him from where he had sat down on the edge of the mattress: "Don´t worry," he murmured, "I´ll make sure you won´t choke on it."

John pretended not to have heard him, but the last thought which crossed his mind before he fell asleep was that Sherlock, despite everything, wasn´t doing so bad at taking care of someone else, after all.

**o o o**

**The End**

**o  
**

Additional disclaimer: Neither 'Strepsils' nor 'Amoxicillin' are my invention and I don´t own any rights to either of them.


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